Arnauld threw a rope into the holy blue
Pulling it a little closer
So that everyone could pluck from its goodness
I reach out and get
I’ll pencil you in
Ten years ago we just said yes
and where and when
“I’ll text you”
Do not ask me to love myself as you love me
I do not see in my face what you see,
treasure in my countenance what you must.
I cannot love myself as you must.
I still question
whether it’s a weakness
to retain words inside you
when they boil up your throat
flap about your brain
because there’s no civilised way out.
We’re taught to behave
anything but retaliate.
How some people can look with only a slight smirk,
unerring in the face of complete dissatisfaction,
derogation, insult. When anger would engulf someone smaller
they stand still and let it wash over them
as if they were pleased to be there.
As if there were nothing more pleasant in life.
How trite, how lucky we are to live life,
and these moments are so small, such trifles in the face of the great infinity.
How wise, how enlightened.
I always thought it was a weakness to
let them get away with it;
whatever it was.
crossing of social boundaries,
heinously antagonistic political views.
I thought, “No, fuck you,
how dare you think you can say that, do that,
you must hear that you are wrong,
and discover it, and feel ashamed,
and never do it again.
I have made the world a better place.”
And, of course, I haven’t.
The decided will not notice what you think
if it doesn’t fit their picture.
is not is your target audience.
Fresh-faced little sum’n sum’n
Running, and running, exhilarating,
Escape the werewolves, beat the boys,
Scrape first place and furthest
Pass the berries, pass the ferns,
Whack-and-thwacking care not no – time – breath – can’t – run – and – talk –
These daddy-approved shoes will carry
Over rucks and molehills, down crumbling hills, through stumps and rubble
She thinks she must have got the eye when she took Norb’s elbow but it was actually that fly-away berry,
Making its pretty purple mark just for her mother to see
A shining proud beacon of androgynous disgrace
Inspired by Normal Rockwell’s ‘Girl with a black eye’.
A group of men are chasing a little girl down a street. It is night.
They are fast. They are frantic.
She is small.
She turns and blows a cloud of bubbles which
stretch and push into the markings of a cheetah
formidable muscle forming around them
not solidifying but preserving their energy
for the moment they will need so strike.
Tiny figure in the grass-
in the grass? Made of grass
clutching head-like shape in what seems like despair,
knee-likeness hunched like fetus.
Don’t bring him back.